


I'll keep you safe

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BEES John BEES, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, I FIXED STAG NIGHT - NO TESSA, John Watson Has Feelings, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Reunion, Sherlock Loves John, and the reunion is different, better maybe? you decide, johnlock au, johnlock au where mary never happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-05-01 02:58:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5189534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Its been two years since Sherlock died, he's two months from being able to see John again but it doesn't go as planned. </p><p>Like a clockmaker fixes time<br/>By keeping the gears in line<br/>Don’t be, don’t be afraid<br/>God knows that mistakes will be made<br/>But I promise you I’ll keep you safe</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll keep you safe

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by Weeesi and the music she sent me earlier. thank you! <3

_You are an artist_  
_And your heart is your masterpiece_  
_And I’ll keep it safe_

[[listen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auyiYHVPSvM)]

Sherlock's eyes tracked the hurried flight of a fat bumblebee as it visited first one violet tulip before moving onto a dandelion. It was quiet and deliberate in its movements; methodical and determined but graceful.

 _John would love these flowers,_ he thought to himself. _Two more months, two more and he'll see what I did for him. He will know._

He leaned against an ancient door frame (he'd been camping out in a cottage that his parents had bought when he and Mycroft were just children) and sighed. He missed the worried wrinkles on John's forehead when he was thinking or disappointed because Sherlock had brought home yet another appendage and it was carefully lodged between a carton of milk and a jar of green olives. He missed waking up to quiet grunts in lieu of proper responses when John shuffled around the kitchen and rummaged through the cabinets for his favorite tea - a red raspberry blend with a hint of citrus. He missed arguing over what take away to order - it was the smallest notions that hurt the most.

He missed John. He missed feeling alive.

The sunshine felt hateful and mocking on his skin - reminding him that he'd had it all and still he'd walked away.

_I did it for him. For **him**. _

Stepping back into the cottage he closed out the memories and flicked off the lights, pulled the heavy curtains closed until the sitting room was blanketed in darkness. 

_How fitting.  
_

He paced, he tugged at his hair, he argued with himself before succumbing and firing a quick text to Mycroft.

_How are things? -SH_

_He's fine.  
_

_Is he well? -SH_

_Appears to be. He frequents the market on Tuesday afternoons, alone._

_221B? -SH_

_It's not vacant._

Sherlock dropped the phone onto a floral printed sofa with hard backing - _What does it mean,_ he wondered. He was sure John would've moved out over a year ago after...but he hadn't. Sherlock had managed to take out Moriarty's minions after a long period of quietly piecing together clues and crimes that matched their motives but it was too soon. He had to make sure he got every last one of them so that he didn't lead them right back to Mrs. Hudson and John. He couldn't live with himself if that happened. 

He would leave no loose strings. 

 

[Three weeks later]

He woke to heavy silence and the frantic pounding of his heart, skin paler than usual and clammy. A quick glance at his watch told him it was 4am. 

_John._

He'd dreamed of John in a sea of brilliant yellow sunflowers, back stretched out on the ground with eyes fixed on a sky so blue that it made one think of shallow depths of the ocean. It should've been perfect except for the fact that John wasn't moving - his chest was painfully still and eyes unblinking, hands relaxed for once in his life. It was unnatural. Sherlock had reached out to touch him only to find that he might as well be nothing more than thin air - he was helpless and despite his best efforts he'd lost John. This place...this must've been his idea of the afterlife. They  _were_ his favorite flowers after all - Helianthus. Just as he'd stared into frozen baby blue eyes until he was close enough to feel his breath hot on John's cheek, he'd woken. 

He felt sick as he stumbled through the dark for his mobile.

_Is John well? -SH_

_It's four a.m. Sherlock._

_Is he well???? -SH  
_

_He stopped by Tesco sometime around 10pm and came out with two bags in hand, went straight home. I assume he's alive and well._

_Check. -SH_

_[...]_

_I told you not to worry, little brother. I assure you he's being watched by London's finest._

Sherlock didn't have to hear his voice to know that he was analyzing his every word and he wasn't a fool. He'd known from the moment John Watson came into Sherlock's life exactly how important he would be.

Ten minutes passed with Sherlock pacing and chain smoking despite a voice in his head (that sounded exactly like a disgruntled John) lecturing him about the health risks and _I'm a doctor, I know what I'm talking about._

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!," he growled.

_He is presently at 221B, it appears that he is awake and sitting in front of the fire with a cup of tea._

_Thank you. -SH_

_What a rare moment for you, I hardly ever get credit or appreciation._

Sherlock wasn't about to continue carrying on this pointless conversation. He had the information that he needed. 

_John is probably dozing off in his chair, spilling tea on his dressing gown as he does when he's tired but denies it._

Images of John slowly pecking away at his laptop, water droplets sliding down the curve of his neck after a hot bath, rubbing his hand over his eyes in frustration after swinging open the refrigerator door to find it nearly bare aside from a bag of toes, storming out of the flat after a domestic, flooded his brain. They washed over him like tidal waves threatening to pull him under.

_Drown me._

Tomorrow, he decided, tomorrow he would venture out of the cottage and go somewhere, do _something._ For now, the hours dragged by with each one longer than the last until he collapsed with head buried in his pillow, at seven a.m.

 

[The next day]

The outdoor market was packed with the elderly, men with shabby beards in need of a good trim, discount bruised fruit and stories - so many stories written on every face.

_Redhead, 32, pregnant but is unsure about whether she can handle it or not, lost her job last Saturday, frequents the marked down fruits and vegetables_

_Male, approx. 52 years old, widow for five years, lives alone, has a daughter who never calls, tends to his backyard beehives in his spare time -_ interesting

 _Shorter male with graying hair - tinged with dirty blonde, dresses older than he is, former military -_ **wait**

Sherlock all but barreled into the man, nearly knocking the basket of goods out out of his hands.

"John!"

The man turned - brown eyes, smile lines around his mouth meaning he was generally a jolly person save for this moment - _not John._

"Apologies," Sherlock muttered with a polite smile. 

The man huffed and shifted his basket closer to his body before stalking off. 

Suddenly this seemed like a horrible idea.

He left empty handed. _  
_

 

The cottage was empty but hadn't been the entire time - someone had been there and had tilted the door knocker to the side as John always had, his mothers quilt that draped across a lumpy queen sized bed was wrinkled as if someone had sat on the side where he slept ( _odd_ ), a pot of tea had been made recently - the kettle was still warm to the touch.

_Moriarty's men would've been more careful - this is not their doing. Mycroft perhaps._

He clutched the phone in his palm and angerly tapped out a text.

_There's no need to snoop on me. I'm clean. You could have simply asked. -SH_

_I don't know to what you're referring. I sent no one._

_Someone has been here, Mycroft. Tell me. -SH_

_I have already informed you - my men are keeping an eye on your doctor unless you'd prefer otherwise._

_Is he okay?_ [unsent]

 _Is he alive?_ [unsent]

_Where is he? -SH_

_He was last seen departing Baker St. at six thirty a.m. and has yet to return._

Sherlock glanced at his watch - five pm. _He should be back by now._

He would blow his own cover, he would throw himself back into the public spotlight, he would set himself ablaze if need be - he would _protect._

He didn't fall asleep until daylight when his body refused to cooperate and his eyes were gritty.

 

He woke to the sound of dishes rattling in the kitchen, instinctively he grabbed his gun and switched the safety off - rounded the corner with near silence and precision. He expected to find strange men with sinister expressions camping out at the kitchen table, he expected to have to fight.

He was wrong, so very very wrong.

_John._

John was digging through cabinets and muttering under his breath about how Sherlock Holmes was the most unorganized man on the face of the earth and _how can he only have one box of tea?_

Time hadn't changed him - a burgundy sweater curved over shoulders and bunched up at the inside of his elbow - from pushing them up most likely. His jeans were faded and shoes scuffed, dirty blonde hair with a touch of gray was neatly trimmed and brushed to the side. 

_At last the sun has returned._

Sherlock coughed under his breath - John whirled around with a box of tea in one hand and the other clenching and unclenching at his side. The last time they'd saw one another was when Sherlock had swan dived off of St Barts and fought back tears as the quiet sounds of John's shock and mourning filled his ears.

"John...John I can explain," he began as he held up both gloved hands in a show of surrender.

John swallowed hard and shook his head - lips drawing into a tight line, fingers all but crushing the tiny box of prepackaged tea.

"Mycroft explained," he stated - voice clipped and jaw clenched.

_Why?_

"I had to."

John inhaled deeply and cocked his head to the side as he squeezed his eyes shut - continued to attempt to regulate his breathing while Sherlock remained standing by the stovetop. More than anything he wanted to take John by the waist and draw him in close until their hearts beat in rhythm - as one, but that would be selfish.

"I understand," John replied, slowly releasing the box and opening his eyes. "Two years Sherlock....two _years_. You could've called," he ground out - calm facade shattering.

Sherlock pursed his lips and bit the inside of his jaw to keep from making a scene. This was neither the time nor place for confessions and buried feelings.

"Say _something!_ " John demanded, teeth gritting together.

"I'm sorry."

_It's not enough, I know this._

John scoffed - "For which part? Letting me grieve for two years or leaving me behind?"

"It's not that simple."

"From where I'm standing it is," John countered.

"I couldn't drag you into this."

"You could've asked you know! I would've said yes."

"Therein lies the problem," Sherlock replied as he pulled out a chair and motioned for John to do the same.

"Explain," John demanded as he took his own chair and sat stiffly with hands clenched into fists and resting on the table.

It took four kettles of tea and three hours to pour over every assailant and detail - by the time Sherlock had finished the sky had darkened and John was somewhere between livid at Jim Moriarty and simply grateful that despite being captured at least twice and tortured (though Sherlock had spared him many of the more gruesome bits) Sherlock was alive - flesh and blood in front of him.

"Will you stay?"

The request was to the point but lacked confidence and came out softer than Sherlock had intended. He felt exposed and naked - torn apart and only partially rebuilt.

John nodded and said nothing.

He took the spare room that night - the one with lace curtains, lilac walls with floral wallpaper and a full sized bed with thick bedding. Sherlock spent the night tossing and turning before wandering outside for a smoke when he got too frustrated to cope with the last few hours. This wasn't how it was supposed to go at all. He'd intended to return to Baker Street with a box of John's favorite tarts and a million apologies. Instead John might as well have been doused with a bucket of ice water and then told to swim.

John was back. It should've been perfect but it wasn't.

 

[One week later]

He did not ask him to stay - didn't have to. In the course of one week John had seeped into every crevice and filled the painful cracks and craters left in Sherlock's heart. It wasn't ideal and there was a heavy tension between them but it was something. The fact that John hadn't taken one look at him and ran in the other direction was surely a good sign. Besides that he'd caught him watching from the corner of his eye, more often than not. And there was the second china cup and saucer of tea waiting for him without having to ask - two more boxes of tea had joined the damaged box and the fridge had been restocked with food that John deemed edible because apparently expired yogurt and biscuits weren't a balanced diet.

Naturally, Mycroft had texted the day after with a simple straight to the point - _I merely did what I had to do._

Sherlock hadn't responded.

 

[Two weeks later]

Dancing.

They were dancing partners in an intricate ballet - bending close enough to nearly touch and then whirling in the opposite direction with unspoken apologies as if neither had a right to touch the other.

It felt forced.

There were tense _goodnight John, 'night Sherlock_ 's right before bed, drawn out silences over tarts and red raspberry tea, evenings spent reading the paper - John would read the latest crimes aloud while Sherlock solved them and chided the police for missing vital information.

The in between hours were Sherlock's favorite - the three am rambling about old cases, John reaching out to caress Sherlock's knuckles as he spoke, an arm around his shoulders as they watched trash telly, leaning in close in public to deduce strangers, late night talks about Greg and Molly - they'd apparently became an item not long ago, about Mrs. Hudson's mothering and refusal to dust a single inch of space in the flat, laughing over things most people would find obscene - dark humor.

Yes, those. _Those_ almost felt like they were home again. It almost felt like John...like John loved him back in the exact same manner. In the _you're all I think about, my world was so dark without you in it, the 'I'd lasso the moon for you'_ kind of love.

He told himself it was only wishful thinking.

 

[Four weeks, three days later]

"No cabbage. I don't care for it. Mycroft always called it the ugly stepsister of the Brassicaceae family - only suitable for the ill and desperate and we are neither."

John rolled his eyes but placed the cabbage back into the bin with the others. Shopping with Sherlock was no easy task - feeding the man was near impossible as he'd prefer to exist on cigarettes (much to John's irritation), tea and biscuits with the occasional strawberry tart.

"Cruciferous vegetable consumption leads to lower cancer risks but I don't see the point in forcing an anemic vegetable down my throat when it hardly has any flavor," Sherlock protested as he glared at the heads of cabbage with narrowed eyes.

"Broccoli then. It's in the same family," John held up two thick stalks of fresh broccoli, eyebrows raised.

"If you insist."

"Oh I _do_ insist. Someone has to keep you alive and you can't survive on that sad thing you call a balanced diet."

"Tarts have fruit in them unless of course you're referring to the medieval timeline in which case they were packed with meats," Sherlock replied as he tossed fresh figs into the cart.

"What do you plan to do with those?"

"Eat them of course. Figs were once thought to be an aphrodisiac but seeing as it has yet to be proven, it's pseudoscience. I prefer them because they're sticky and sweet on the tongue."

John cleared his throat and continued to the next aisle without another word but stayed close enough to Sherlock that their shoulders brushed.

"You know...I've heard that figs can have all kinds of good side effects," the cashier noted as they checked out.

Sherlock took one look at her - she was so very obviously flirting with John.

_Thirty seven, unmarried, chronic trips to the local pub not just on weekends indicating she's an alcoholic, bisexual, credit card debt in excess of $10K._

"Yeah? They're not for me though. I've never tried them, he loves them."

John curled a palm around Sherlock's arm and held on - the cashier got the message loud and clear, blushed as she finished bagging the items. After she finished she motioned for John to come closer and whispered (though it wasn't terribly quiet and Sherlock overheard) _'He's a very lucky man.'_

John's eyes went wide and his mouth gaped - "Right. I should be going."

She gave him a polite smile and moved on to the next customer.

"What was that about?," Sherlock questioned.

_Tell me she was right._

"Nothing really. She wanted me to let her know how the figs were in case she wants to give 'em a try."

_John Watson you're a dirty liar._

Sherlock smiled and hailed a cab - made sure to scoot in as close to John as he could get and if John picked up on that (& he did) he kept quiet about it.

 

[Five weeks, two days later]

"John this is ridiculous."

"Come on, it'll be fun."

The wrinkled paper currently stuck to John's forehead appeared blurry - the words mixing together until he couldn't read them. The game was John's idea - they were to guess who one another were, without looking. Naturally, it had to accompany hard liquor and two of the sitting room chairs pushed closely across from one another.

"Am I...human?," Sherlock asked.

"Sometimes."

"Can't have sometimes...has to be...um," Sherlock slurred.

"Okay, yes. You're human."

"Yes...or no...okay," Sherlock mumbled then leaned forward with palms resting on his legs. "Am I a man?"

_Am I yours? Do we belong to one another?_

"Yep."

"Am I tall?"

John held his hands out - "Not as tall as people think."

"Hmm. Nice?"

_Do you think I'm nice? Worth saving?_

"Ish."

_Hmm.  
_

"Clever?"

"I'd say so."

_Wait. What?_

"You would?"

John laughed and chose not to answer.

"Mmm, am I important?"

_To you?_

"To s-some people," John slurred.

"Do _people_ like me?"

_Tell me you love me. Right here and now, for the rest of our lives._

John reached for his glass and stopped part way - "Er no, they don't. You tend to rub 'em the wrong way."

_Obviously. This is why we're perfect for one another._

Sherlock slumped back in his chair then sat back up - proud of his brilliance and sure that he solved it because they couldn't possibly be talking about _him._

"Am I the current king of England?"

John laughed - wide grin spreading across his face and making his eyes light up. "Are you? You know we don't have a king?"

"Don't we?"

_so not the king then...._

He sat back in his chair, crossed his legs lazily - "Your go."

John perched on the edge of his chair and nearly fell - braced himself with a palm on Sherlock's upper thigh.

_Don't move. Stay there._

They both looked down at his hand - it lingered a few seconds longer than necessary before John shrugged - "I don't mind."

_I don't...I can't process this._

He couldn't speak so he simply gestured with his glass - _I don't mind either._

John's eyes were glassy, pupils dilated - clearly enjoying what he was seeing. "Am I a woman?"

_No. Wouldn't want you to be._

Sherlock eyed him then laughed - _ridiculous notion._

"This," John pointed to the paper on his forehead and grinned.

"What?"

_Not answering that, sorry._

Sherlock attempted to right himself on the chair - his muscles weren't cooperating as well as they would if he were sober. "Yes."

"Am I pretty? This."

_Pretty doesn't even come close. Can't tell him that. Dammit. Say **something** , anything.  _

"Erm...erm...beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models."

_That is to say that you remind me of my father in that he's a very noble trust worthy person and one of the best men. Understand me, please._

"Yea...but am I a pretty lady?"

_He thinks I want him to be different, that I'd love him more if he were a woman. He couldn't be further from the truth. I would love him even if the sun fell from the sky and we could no longer see one anothers faces - I would commit every touch to memory, every inch. I would love him blind._

Sherlock leaned in and squinted at the paper - sure it was blurry but it was also a clever ploy to avoid the question because this was no longer about the game. This was about the two of them.

"I don't know who you are. I don't know who you're supposed to be."

_I don't know if you'd **want** to love another man, much less **me**. I thought I knew everything there was to know about you but that part is a mystery that I'm terrified to solve._

"You picked the name!"

John was frustrated and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to tell him the truth but the very thought made his stomach clench. He could analyze the dead any day of the week - could study the coagulation of saliva on a decapitated head but he couldn't face the idea of losing John.

John slumped back in his chair in defeat - "You're not really getting the hang of this game are you, Sherlock?"

_I would if you'd stop speaking in riddles._

"So I am human, I'm not as tall as people think I am...I'm-I'm niceish..."

_I'm talking about **you**._

John relaxed and propped his stocking feet on the edge of Sherlock's chair.

"...clever, important to some people but I tend to rub them up the wrong way."

_Important to **me**. _

It was brilliant - absolutely brilliant. Laughter bubbled up in his chest - "I'm _you_ , aren't I?"

_You have only the best of qualities._

John grinned, took a sip of his drink and shook his head. " _You."_

_You think I'm....important? And I'm nice? You actually see the good in me?_

He peeled the paper off of his forehead - saw his own name in John's messy scrawl. It was blurry but unmistakable.

"You don't understand. John...I was describing _you_."

"Let's see if I really am a pretty lady," John said, quietly as he removed his own paper and ignored the comment. He squinted - "Madonna?"

Sherlock shrugged and finished off his drink. The room was spinning slightly as John's face came into view mere inches from his own with hands braced on either side of the chair.

"You never answered me....am.I.... _pretty_?"

Sherlock burst into a fit of laughter while John rolled his eyes and smirked but didn't budge.

"You," Sherlock replied as he ran a finger down the length of John's cheekbone, "are more than....more than pretty."

He watched as John's eyes darted from his own and down to his mouth - it was a split second before he pressed warm lips against Sherlock's and pulled away with his thumb brushing a sharp cheekbone.

"G'night Sherlock, think I'm gonna turn in."

With that he stumbled to his room and closed the door behind him, leaving Sherlock with fingers brushing against his mouth where John's had been only seconds ago. He wanted nothing more than to lay everything out for John to see - his insecurities, his fear of losing this beautiful thing that they were creating, the quirks that no one in his life seemed to appreciate - the softer side that left him vulnerable. Instead he poured himself another drink and committed the kiss to memory 'lest it be nothing more than a drunken impulse.

 

[The next day]

"Coffee," John groaned as he clutched his head, elbows resting on the kitchen table and dressing gown loosely untied - pajama shirt inside out and wrinkled mismatched sweats.

Sherlock quietly placed a steaming cup of strong coffee in front of him and pretended to be reading a book though it was one that his mother had left behind ages ago - something along the lines of gracefully aging and learning to accept growing older.

"Botox?," John questioned - pointing toward the book.

"What? Oh. One of many options, yes."

"Worried about aging, are we?"

Sherlock closed the book and took a sip of coffee - "I was interested in the biological process and how this book promises to slow it. It's nothing more than flimsy unproven science and questionable procedures."

John nodded silently and massaged his temples.

"Aspirin, of course!"

John furrowed his brow in confusion - "Aspirin makes a person age slower?"

Sherlock wandered off to the bathroom and returned with a small pill bottle - "Aspirin helps with headaches."

_I'll take care of you._

"Oh."

John took the medication and purposely avoided Sherlock's staring in between once again pretending to be engrossed in the book and sipping his coffee.

"I thought I'd take a walk when this kicks in," John murmured.

_He wants to be alone._

"There are some bees outside that I'd like to study, perhaps collect a specimen if I can find one that is deceased," Sherlock replied.

"Bees?"

"Yes John, bees."

John nodded and pushed away from the table - "You have fun with that. I won't be gone long."

 

Sherlock was so deeply engrossed in studying the humble bumblebees and observing their behavior that he didn't notice John's return until he felt a hand on his lower back.

"I'm back."

Sherlock straightened and adjusted his shirt but John didn't remove his hand.

"A bumblebees wings beat 130 beats per second. They land on a plant and vibrate the pollen out of it - it helps the plant to produce more fruit. They live in colonies of 50-500 individuals," Sherlock rambled.

John's hand shifted - moved lower until it wrapped around a hipbone - "The queen flies to where a chemical is and waits for the male...until he's ready to mate. Most queens mate only once," he stated.

_Are you flirting with me...with bees?_

Another hand came around to rest on the other hip until John's chest was neatly pressed against Sherlock's back.

"I didn't know you...preferred bees."

_Which is it, John? The queen bee or another male?_

"They seemed to interest you so I...well I bought a book. Did you know that male Southeastern blueberry bees...prefer to practice mating with other males?"

_Oh wow._

John continued, one hand spinning Sherlock around - baby blue eyes were looking back at him like...like John always had, now that Sherlock thought about it.

_How did I miss it?_

"Some bees, however, prefer both."

_Bisexual._

"Sometimes the male Southeastern blueberry bee finds another and isn't sure if he wants to remain with him or find a nice queen to settle with. Bumblebees can mate with other partners - sometimes three though not at-," Sherlock began.

John pressed a finger to his mouth - "This isn't about bees and you know it."

_It'll always come right back to this, to us._

"I'm not....I'm not good at these things. What I'm trying to say is that perhaps the southwestern blueberry bee- oh screw it," John began.

He was no good with words unless they were written, well rehearsed, predictable. This? This was jumping out of an airplane with no parachute and trusting the person next to you to care enough about you to hold on tight and never let go.

He licked his lips and grabbed Sherlock by the waist until they were as close as two (dressed) people could get.

And just like that, he froze up.

Sherlock was his parachute - the partner ready and willing to save the other.

He dipped his head and lightly brushed his lips against John's - "Is this okay?," he whispered.

_Please say yes._

John nodded - that was all the encouragement Sherlock needed.

The kiss was soft and gentle - it was years spent together just waiting for the right moment only to find that _they_ had to create it, it was every love story in history ending and beginning with the sweet promise of forever.

"Sherlock," John moaned against Sherlock's lips as he tangled one hand with Sherlock's - fingers interlocking and holding on for dear life.

Sherlock took his time, slid his tongue against John's in an act of love - pouring every word he could never say into it then moved on to dot kisses along John's jawline and the curve of his neck - whispering words that John couldn't quite make out. They sounded like apologies tangled with _I love you_ 's.

"I do too," John whispered.

_You love me._

Sherlock felt his world burst into bloom - hot pink tulips, purple Salvia, bouquets of sunflowers, two pillows on one bed, waking up to the same blue eyes staring back at him with all the love in the world for the rest of their lives, staying at the cottage with his bees, walking together hand in hand at the park, late night kisses and mornings spent curled up in bed together.

John had waited until the right moment came along - he'd wanted it to be special, it was obvious. The bee's, the sun just low enough in the sky that it didn't burn, the book.

"I'm glad that you're here...that you're alive," John said, against Sherlock's lips.

_Me too._

"I'd rather be here than anywhere else though Mrs. Hudson...," he began.

" -will likely join us," John finished. 

"Or not. Either way she'll be happy."

"Why do you say that?," John asked as he lightly trailed a hand up Sherlock's back.

"Will you be needing two bedrooms?," Sherlock said with a grin.

John groaned and rested his head on Sherlock's chest - "She knew."

_Maybe one day we'll be those married ones._

"The queen herself couldn't hide anything from Mrs. Hudson."

"Mmm guess not. If...if you ever want to you could show me...well we could talk about bees mating," John stammered.

Sherlock's brain seemed to go blank at that - "I would like that."

 

With time and much planning on Sherlock's part (though John picked out their suits) they had a large wedding complete with bouquets of sunflowers, a 3 tier cake with ~~purple~~ lilac ribbons of frosting on the side and shiny edible pearls. There wasn't a dry eye in the church when they spoke their vows.

And all of those dancing lessons (behind closed curtains) paid off as they danced to a piece composed by Sherlock with the lights dimmed and the whole world melting away.

The public was shocked as the two of them didn't emerge until the wedding itself - they'd thought Sherlock was dead. 

They'd speculated about their relationship for years yet had never been able to confirm.

Because of this, their wedding went off without a hitch.

The honeymoon was spent taking in museums and staying at a cozy inn to find a champagne bottle with a card from Mycroft attached and the words _I told you there would be a happy announcement._

At long last, Sherlock Holmes lives.

**Author's Note:**

> I did a lot of research for this fic, might've gotten the blueberry bee details wrong but we'll, um, pretend they're right because this is an AU after all. Hope you enjoyed it, no Mary and no Tessa ;)
> 
> come obsess over these two saps with me http://mostlikelydefinitelymad.tumblr.com/


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